Dreams
by Blood Red Youth
Summary: 10 short stand-alone music inspired stories written for Tumblr.
1. Lifespan

**Lifesp** **an - Vaults** _ _  
__ _You took what you wanted to take  
and yes you never wanted nothing from me  
_

Mika had walked with his head held high for everyone else's benefit, and had maintained the grim but righteous look on his face. His hands were numb and his thoughts were running fast, jumbled and blurry. He drew in a shallow breath, desperate to keep his composure. The worst of it all was that he understood why this was necessary, but he didn't _want_ to understand it, because he didn't want this to be the only way things could have turned out. Logic was failing him. Kurda didn't deserve to die, but what _did_ he deserve?

A crowd had gathered, and the guards were occupied keeping the raucous vampires from coming too close. There were hundreds of them, some red-faced and furious, calling for the end of the traitor, and some sullen. Paris had no wish to draw this out, and for the first time in a long time he abandons tradition, perhaps not able to think of anything to say to condemn the man he had trusted and believed in. Before the drop, before the end – his throat tightens at the thought – Mika steps forward, because he can't _not_ know.

"Was it worth it?" he asked. His voice was thin, strained and wavering. It had been a long time since he'd felt so uncertain. He craves _I'm sorry_ , craves the reassurance, wants one last scrap of hope to hold on to because he knows he's going to need something to get him through.

This time, Kurda raised his head to meet the Prince's eyes. His cheeks were tear-stained but there was a glimmer of something in his bright eyes, defiance perhaps, and he let out a hopeless, broken laugh.

"No," he said eventually, as if he was stating the obvious. Like a final knife in the back, unapologetic, he adds; "but it _would_ have been."


	2. Dreams

**Dreams - Bastille and Gabrielle Aplin (cover)**  
 _Listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness  
Like a heartbeat drives you mad  
In the stillness of remembering what you had  
And what you've lost_

It was almost silent, but for Larten the groans of pain were still ringing in his ears, his own mocking heartbeat roaring in the back of his mind. _You lived, and she didn't._ He couldn't think of anything apart from how this couldn't _really_ have just happened, not so quickly, his usually sharp senses overwhelmed with shock and grief, so much so that he didn't notice the presence behind him until a voice cut through his thoughts unexpectedly.

"Is she –"

Mika's voice cracked halfway, and he lapsed into an involuntary silence. Larten's eyes shifted briefly away from Arra's hand, still clasped tightly in his own.

"She is not here now," Larten replied evasively, unable to force the words to form on his tongue. Mika understood his meaning, and his dark eyes twitched at the corners.

They remained in silence for a long time after that. Larten returned his attention to the bloodstained tendril of hair laying outside of the hammock, then to the fingers that had limply released his own. Had it been minutes now, or hours?

"Was it awful?" Mika croaked eventually. Distantly, Larten wondered, if he weren't already in so much shock, whether the question might have come as a surprise. Mika was the kind of man who wanted information, hard facts, not pointless opinions. He knew as well as Larten did that _all_ death was awful, in one way or another, and a description of exactly how her breath had caught, how her eyes had slid shut and her head had fallen back, would serve no purpose at all. Still, Mika was not a child, and Larten wouldn't insult him with lies.

"Yes," he responded softly, because it had been. "She was in pain."

Mika gave no indication of whether he was pleased to hear the truth or whether it had disturbed him.

"She was frightened," Larten continued, remembering it painfully. "I said everything was going to be fine," he continued. "I said it so many times that I think I started to believe it, but she never did. I was not much help."

Unexpectedly, a hand clasped his shoulder, and it took a moment for him to realize that it really was Mika making such a warm gesture.

"Probably more than you think," he assured, and all the tears that hadn't yet spilled were making Larten's eyes sting and his throat ache. There was something very powerful about the idea that just this _once_ , this final time, he hadn't failed her.

"She loved you," Mika said, softly, and there hadn't been any last moment confession of such a thing on her deathbed, there hadn't been any poignant declaration that she had always loved him and still did, but he _hoped_ it was true. "I'm glad you were there."

That was too much, and when Larten tried to form a composed and coherent reply he choked on the swell of emotion.

"Thank you," Mika said, and there was none of the usual sharpness to his tone, none of the bitter sarcasm. It was the most sincere he had ever sounded.

Perhaps that was what forced everything into focus. In an instant, everything was completely real: her hand was colder suddenly, the blood was brighter against the fabric of the hammock. The cells had been cleared, because the battle was over. Everything was over. _It's over_.

Perhaps sensing that he had caused an unintended reaction, Mika placed his hand back into his pocket and coughed awkwardly, before turning to leave, allowing Larten privacy for the inevitable moment where the tears started to fall, swiping at his own in the way out.


	3. You Should Be Here

**You Should Be Here - Kehlani**  
 _I'm looking right at you_  
 _But you're not there_  
 _I'm seeing right past you_  
 _But you seem well aware_

"Stop it," Mika instructs, like a young Paris, swatting at Arrow's hands when he tries to pick at the bandage solidly wrapped around his wrist. The Vampaneze had used every last weapon at his disposal against him, including his teeth, and Arrow had been left victorious but with a whole portion of his wrist missing.

Memories of the battle are still at the front of his mind, and it's been two nights but Mika's senses are still on red alert and he jumps at every movement in the trees. A stoat had made a particularly sudden movement earlier in the evening and Mika had jarred, legs tensed, eyes frantically searching for his sword. Arrow watches these reactions bemusedly, cool and steel-eyed, one sheathed dagger always at his waist. They had been outnumbered. Mika had taken down two, and Arrow had taken down five. It wasn't a competition, and Mika didn't feel inferior. He had watched as Arrow dispatched the last two, teeth bared in a snarl, brutal and ferocious. It was the first time in their history that Mika had felt unsettled, and the feeling had lived on long after the battle was done.

"If they come, they won't be making any fucking noise," Arrow reminds him, one eyebrow quirked. "We'll either smell them, or we won't. They won't tumble through the bushes like imbeciles."

"Yeah, well," Mika responds articulately. "The sooner we can get out of here, the better. I don't know what you were thinking."

Arrow chuckles darkly, clenching and unclenching his fist, testing out his dexterity. Mika notices the glint of his thick wedding band in the low light. For a moment, Mika wonders if Arrow might have noticed it too, and if so, whether it might remind him of his humanity, of his mortality, but then when Arrow speaks again in that same nonchalant tone he knows it hasn't gotten through this time.

"I just don't know when you got so scared of a fight."

Mika regards the man who has always been more a brother than a friend over the last embers of the fire. All his life, Mika has struggled with compassion, and when they were young, Arrow was always the more empathetic. There is something so disconnected, so cold, in the way he looks now that it makes _Mika_ feel human. Mika holds his eyes, and Arrow stares back blankly, as if he doesn't think he's doing anything wrong.

"Enough," Mika whispers, unable to meet his gaze any longer. It hurts, somewhere deep down, that the other Arrow – the _kind_ Arrow, the one who always wondered whether he was doing the right thing – is gone now, replaced by this heartless shell. "Let's get some sleep."

Arrow sneers and shrugs, drawing the dagger out and beginning to polish it with the edge of his fraying shirt. Mika watches a few seconds longer, lips pressed tight together, and he doesn't startle this time when one of the birds in the trees above them rustles. It occurs to him, sadly, that he might have less to fear from his enemies in the forest than he does from his brother.


	4. Collide

these were all meant to be 200 words and they are getting longer every time. whatever. this is my first attempt at verrrry slight larten/alicia and therefore has some spoilers for SLC if you haven't read it yet!

* * *

 **Collide - Justine Skye**  
 _I know you think that you know me_  
 _But you ain't even seen my dark side_

The lights of the city are twinkling like thousands of fireflies outside their second floor apartment. Larten feels like himself again under the moonlight, with Gavner tucked up in bed and no longer looking at him with those brown eyes, always wanting to know _why_. He unlocks the door and steps out onto the balcony, taking a deep breath of the night air and listening to the city hum.

This is the third night this week that he hasn't been able to sleep. It isn't worry over _the business_ that keeps him awake, though that's what he blames it on when Alicia asks. He is concerned about the work he does for Tanish sometimes, worries over the morality of it, but this slight anxiety is nothing compared to the pain and the guilt he carries around night after night, year after year. If he could just stop _thinking_ –

He rubs a hand over his eyes when he hears the click of heels behind him. When he breathes out and opens them again, Alicia is beside him, resting her forearms on the balcony and looking over the city. Her engagement ring and the crystal wine glass in her left hand catch the multicoloured lights and reflect them back onto her pale skin.

"What's wrong?" she asks, no preamble, and he can't help but smile a little. Alicia has never been the type to waste time skirting around an issue. It is a quality he has always found endearing.

He draws breath to answer, opens his mouth and then closes it again before anything can escape. He can't say a word without spilling it all, all of the lies he's told her, all of the secret things he's done and been a part of.

"When are you going to stop thinking you're so _evil_?"

To her, it must seem ridiculous. He is gentle with her, kind always, and though he is stern with Gavner he has never done any harm to the boy. But she doesn't know the story, can never know any part of it, and so it will always be impossible for her to understand. None of it is her fault, but sometimes keeping up his act is exhausting.

As he considers, she straightens up and draws close to him, laying a hand against the side of his neck and drawing his eyes towards her.

"You might not think so," she whispers, setting her glass aside so that she can place her other hand on his back, stepping into his embrace. "But I _know_ you. I don't think you have anything to hide from me."

He thinks of Traz's last choking breath, of the terrified sailors and the blood spoiling out on deck. He thinks about the lies he can't help telling, wonders how she might feel if he tells her that she doesn't even know his _name_ , and bites the inside of his cheek. The worst of it all is that he _loves_ her, more than anything, but that's the very reason she must never, never know.

"You should not worry," he manages eventually, knowing that he needs to divert her attention, smooth all of this over for another night, another month – as long as he can. "I am just a fool. It is nothing."

It isn't a lack of trust that stops him. He fears that she'll leave him, of course, and knows that she would, that she _should_ , but it isn't only that. He fears that if he lets her too close it's only going to be a matter of time before she's gone too, because isn't that what happens to everyone he loves? Isn't that how it's always been?

She frowns, not fooled. "What are you afraid of?" she wonders softly, tracing a thumb across the stubble on his jaw. "I love you. You must know that nothing would change _my_ opinion."

He stares down at her, amazed by her apparent faith, not sure what he ever did to deserve it. "Nothing?" he repeats, wanting to believe it.

"Nothing, darling," she assures him, and her pale green eyes are soft and kind when he looks into them.

A pause, and he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer and allowing her head to rest against his shoulder.

"Within reason though, I suppose?" he asks, before he can stop himself, testing the waters. "You would not forgive me a killing spree."

He is careful to position it as a joke, just in case, and she spins out of his grip instantly, eyes darkening.

"You shouldn't joke, Vur," she reprimands him, and the illusion is over all in a second. He is Vur again, a human, soon to be a married man, not Larten, not the vampire with the history of such despicable deeds.

 _And if I am not joking?_ That's what he wants to say - what he _needs_ to say - but he can't. Maybe he's never going to be able to.

He draws her close again, whispering platitudes, brushing her copper hair aside to kiss her cheek. He knows now that this is temporary, that it will only be a matter of time before his deception is revealed, but he hides like a coward to wait it out as long as he can. Truthfully, he doesn't know what else he can do.


	5. Drowning

**Drowning - BANKS** _  
From the girl who made you soup and tied your shoes when you were hurting  
you are not deserving, you are not deserving._

It's another night of stony silence lasting from the vicious spat the night before. When he tries to make conversation – about the weather, of all things ( _anything_ to make the silence stop) – Arra levels him with one of _those_ looks, and says, with eyes flashing and voice as cold as the blizzard they faced a week ago, _I've said everything I wanted to say to you._ That catches him, renders everything he had planned to say useless, and she leaves, without a word to indicate where she might be going or when she might be back.

He makes the comparison before he can even think about it – in all his memory, he never fought with _Alicia_ like this, not once in all their years together – and despises himself for it afterwards, sighs into his hands. He wonders whether she's right, whether chasing after a life that is already lost is losing him his own, but it's too much to comprehend, and he chooses anger over self-reflection. _I will find you, Randel, and when I do…_

He waits and watches the sun set again, and then watches another, and then wonders whether he's finally done it this time and she's decided to leave. The thought twists his stomach, and he supposes it's the guilt that comes from finally having succeeded in making the most loyal person he's ever met finally decide to abandon him. He casts out his mind for her, and finds her halfway across the country, heading north. He wonders whether it's appropriate to fire across an apology, and then decides against it. He ought to miss her, and he supposes sometimes he does. But he likes the idea that without him dragging her down, she might be doing something worthwhile.

Eventually, as he considers moving forwards, fate finds him a challenge when he's least expecting it. He picks up the scent but before he can follow the figure is in front of him, straight-backed, reminiscent of Randel's challenge to the pack of cubs he had run with almost a century ago. The Vampaneze announces his name, and Larten allows him to keep to his traditions, but he does not hear, _cannot_ hear, over the roar in his own ears. In that moment he is Arrow, or Wester, or _worse_ , cool fury in his veins. He asks after Randel, and there is no sign of recognition in the other man's red gaze.

He approaches the fight with absolute precision, bloodlust focusing him – but his opponent is faster than he expects, grasps his arm before he can make his first strike and snaps the bone. There must be a long-suffering survival instinct somewhere in the back of his mind that keeps him moving away from the attacks while his mind is _so_ calm, and it's this same instinct that drags him back to his feet even after the Vampaneze slashes at his side with nails curled into a claw, nearly ripping him open. The pain is inconsequential in the moment, and Larten is eventually able to fasten his hands around his challenger's throat and tear and _snap_.

After every fight, he waits to feel happy – happy that he is one step closer to completing his quest, happy that there is one fewer Vampaneze left in the world – but he never does. This time, as the rest of the world comes back into focus, he realizes that the dawn is approaching and that there's blood, too much of it, both his and not. He's suddenly breathless, and his uninjured hand flies to his side – blood, more, and a distant, throbbing pain, becoming clearer and clearer by the second. He forces himself to breathe, because he's been told a thousand times that you _can't_ panic, but the pain worsens by the second.

By the luck of the Gods, or something more sinister, he makes his way back into his shelter before the dawn. Rubbing spit into the edges helps somewhat – perhaps might help more if he could stop shaking, or if his mouth wasn't so dry – but the pain refuses to subside.

With no other choice, Larten stays within his underground home for days, creating makeshift bandages and wondering if he's _ever_ going to lose consciousness. He has an unprecedented level of difficulty recovering, and suspects that his injuries might have been too serious to be fixed by healing spit. He knows that means that he needs to _move_ , find assistance somehow, but he just doesn't. He can't stop himself lying awake relentlessly wondering whether there's any point, whether there's anything left for him to move on _to_.

He falls into a fitful sleep eventually, with the assistance of a couple of bottles of human liquor, and dreams vividly, predictably, about revenge. This only leaves him waking and trying to remember, staring at the bricks and feeling sick, when it was that he started dreaming about Randel instead of Alicia.

When he wakes again, groaning and confused, he opens his eyes and finds a figure sitting across from him. Blinking, he twists his head and identifies Arra, a cigarette lighter in one hand and a needle in the other.

He is too shocked at first to say anything – and too weak – and he has trouble unpicking whether he is pleased or disappointed that she hasn't decided to leave him in the dirt where he undoubtedly belongs. Realizing that he is awake, she crosses to his side and peels away the sleeve of a shirt that he's been using as a bandage. His arm is healing, but he hasn't bothered to set the bone properly, and he can see the impatience in her eyes when she looks at the incorrect angle, knowing as well as he does that it will need to be broken again and set properly.

"You're an imbecile," she accuses, exactly the quality of greeting he had been expecting. Her tone is icy and sharp, but she is gentle as she helps him to shift into a half-sitting position. She knows the truth – he has looked after himself before and could do so again, but he hasn't the willpower.

"I assumed you had left," he says, voice gruff from going unused for so long.

She doesn't meet his eyes, busy inspecting the wound. It has been a long time since he's done the same – it pains him to turn in that direction – and the way she wrinkles her nose and grimaces doesn't fill him with confidence. Then she glances up at him, and there's resentment in her eyes, like she wishes she _could_ leave, like this isn't at all how she thought their attempt at a life together was going to turn out. He doesn't blame her for that. He knows he's a mess, _knows_ he's pathetic and disgusting, and wouldn't mind if she wanted to tell him so. But she takes a shallow breath, swallows, and never does.

"And what would you have done if I had?" she asks.

He'll wonder that too, when he's well enough, but for now he doesn't dwell on it. She draws close to begin the stitching, and he's grateful for this, more than he can put into words, so he reaches out to clasp her arm. She twists out of his grip, jaw clenched, but she _stays_ , and he supposes that's the best he can hope for, and a thousand times what he deserves.


	6. I Wish I Could Break Your Heart

This was an unfortunate pick of song – I suppose that's what you get for choosing from shuffle! This is my first attempt at Malora/Larten, and she has never been a favourite character of mine, so hopefully this isn't too terrible. Spoilers for SLC, I guess. Only four to go!

* * *

 **I Wish I Could Break Your Heart** **– Cassadee Pope  
** _Well the truth is that I'd never ever want to hurt you, baby  
But it'd be nice to know that I could  
Be strong enough to pull you under, throw you back a little thunder  
Even though I never would_

Malora can read his intentions from across the street, and can't help but sigh. Larten, as observant as ever, has remembered him too – he clearly lives around the corner from the little inn they are staying at, and on three of the past five nights they have had the _questionable_ pleasure of running into him. Twice might have been a coincidence, three times was suspicious, and, well, this is the fourth.

Malora has never thought of herself as particularly pretty – she supposes she has been too busy to think much about it – but she _has_ developed an unfortunate habit of attracting boys who think otherwise wherever they travel. She thinks life with a shapeshifter has a way of teaching you that beauty may be subjective. Perhaps that's why she sees more beauty in the twist in Larten's lips when he smirks, in the twinkle in his dark eyes when he laughs, in the way he rubs lines into his jaw with long fingers when he's confused than she ever has in any of these ill-informed potential suitors, or in anything else she's seen in the world.

The boy feigns surprise, raising his hand in a little wave, and, with that same lopsided twist to his lips, Larten leans down to elbow her in the ribs, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

"You have an admirer," he teases, and she huffs and folds her arms.

Noticing her discomfort, he laughs. It's that same laugh that makes his eyes sparkle and knocks the air right out of her lungs.

"Can't you scare him off, _vampire?_ " she asks, linking her arm into his and attempting to steer them in the opposite direction. But when he wants to be – which isn't always, she thinks, remembering dawns when he has covered her over while she pretends to be sleeping, times he has carried her to bed, times he has brushed his lips so gently against her forehead – Larten can be extremely strong, as well as extremely _irritating_ , and he stays put and returns the little wave.

"Would you not like to make a friend?" he asks. "Besides, he means you no harm."

He seems to have an innate way of knowing these things, and Malora knows that he's right. As the young man crosses over to meet them, she can see clearly that he's nothing more than a boy her own age who is delighted at the opportunity to come and talk to her. She supposes she ought to be flattered, but there's a grasping, uncomfortable feeling in her chest. For a couple of moments, she just looks up at him – he is clearly amused, but she searches his eyes for any sign of something _else_ , any sign that secretly he wants to keep her all to himself, but there's nothing. _Of course there isn't_.

He can break her heart so easily that it happens every week, and the worst of it all is that he's never going to realize that he's doing it.

"Miss Malora!" the youngster says, and he's flushed light pink all the way from his throat to his hairline, as though saying her name is the most impossibly intimate thing he could have done. It's so pathetic she almost loses patience and tells him to just _go away_ , but she knows she'll feel guilty later if she does. He wrings his hands, eyes darting to Larten nervously as he greets him too.

"Hello, Henry," he says pleasantly, and Malora is thankful for that – even if only because she'd forgotten his name. Before the young man can say anything else, the tall vampire snaps his fingers, looking for all the world like he's just remembered something overwhelmingly important.

"I had forgotten all about it!" he cries, and Henry looks taken aback. "I have an important errand to run, and it is already getting late. Master Henry, would you do me a favour?"

Guessing his intentions, Malora draws breath to speak. "Oh, no, no –" she begins, shooting her travelling companion the most withering glare she can summon, but he interrupts, mirth in his eyes.

"Would you walk Malora back for me?" he asks, barely concealing his laughter. "It is not proper for –"

"Yes!" Henry responds, far too quickly, and Malora can barely restrain herself from launching into her "master" and fastening her hands around his throat. He will pay for this later.

"Wonderful," Larten replies, like this is the funniest joke he's ever told. He slides a hand around her shoulder and steers them both in the direction of their inn, dipping his head just slightly to whisper _you be nice_ , so quietly that she knows Henry will not notice. There is so much she wants to say, but she doubts whether she will be able to say any of it without raising her voice almost to a scream.

He casts himself off in the opposite direction, and she swallows hard. The tears are burning at the backs of her eyes, and she takes a shallow little breath, willing them back. She makes vows to herself in this moment, promises herself that if the tables are ever turned she'll make him suffer just the same way, but knows that it will be a number of years before they can ever ring true. _One day_ , she thinks, watching him walk away, before shaking Henry off like an unwelcome insect and taking herself home.


	7. New Romantics

**New Romantics – Taylor Swift  
** _Every day is like a battle  
But every night with us is like a dream_

Standing on the edge of town in the glow of the sunset, shadows of smiles and quirked eyebrows at private jokes, thinking the same thoughts. Hands clasped in the cold, that half-choked, frustrated sob and the thumbs that had brushed the tears away – _you're the only one who knows that_ , she had admitted through gritted teeth, fighting it all the way, and he'd vowed _I'll never tell_. Laughing like he never would if there was anyone else around to see. Defences crumbling, too quickly for something he spent decades building. _What?_ she had asked in a whisper, when he'd revealed so much without a second thought and the realization had hit him afterwards. _Nothing_ , he'd replied, frowning, _I just don't think I've ever told anyone that before_.

And now, spitting poison, ripping shreds out of whatever it is they've built, pushing away because they've come too close. He knows that's what she's doing because he knows he's doing it too. The cycle probably isn't ever going to stop, at least until one of them decides to be weak first. He knows he's never going to do it, but he fears she might be his match.

"Enough," he growls eventually, because it's the middle of the _day_ and this has ceased to be interesting and is now nothing but hard work. Mika likes nothing more than a debate. Sometimes he enjoys a fight, and sometimes he even enjoys an argument – largely because he's always, _always_ right, and it never takes him long to prove his point, wrong-foot his opponent and _win_.

But there is nothing satisfying about arguing with Arra, who can be so incorrigibly difficult that it makes his blood boil. Mika's victories rest on evidence, information, something tangible – and she has a way of figuring out what he doesn't know, making everything all about intuition and thoughts and other things he can't completely _prove_ to be a load of bollocks. Perhaps she was like this all along, or perhaps, worse, he's had a hand in creating his own perfect enemy.

"All this over nothing," he says, trying to swallow the comeback that's just under his tongue. "Isn't it time –"

" _Nothing?_ " she bites back, outraged, as if belittling it is the grossest insult of any he could have thrown back at her. She launches into some other pointless rant, and he issues her _that_ look, all the words he's never going to say packed in to one efficient, succinct glare. _I'm putting up the fucking white flag here, can't you just take the victory?_

Perhaps that all comes across, or perhaps secretly she's tired too. Either way, she huffs, bites the inside of her cheek and moves away, slinking off to another corner to make a bed for what remains of the daylight hours.

"Thank the Gods," he mutters, half-hoping she can still hear him, relieved that he's finally going to be able to get some sleep. But all the things he could have said buzz around in his mind incessantly, keeping him awake long into the afternoon thinking about _why_ she's the one person in the world he can never seem to beat.


	8. Ghosts That We Knew

ughhh I really want to finish this. Not too keen on this one - it has absolutely no plot - but for some reason I really struggled with the song. Only 2 to go!

* * *

 **Ghosts That We Knew – Mumford & Sons  
** _The ghosts that we knew made us black and all blue  
But we'll live a long life  
And the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view  
And we'll live a long life_

"You are being unnervingly quiet," Larten observes snarkily from somewhere behind him. Darren is long asleep, exhausted from his first trek to the Mountain, and all three of them are bitterly cold and in very foul moods. This is not unusual for Larten, who is very rarely in any _other_ type of mood, but Darren had looked disappointed when Gavner had brushed him off earlier in the night. He had made a point of being friendly with the boy, partly out of pity – at first, Gavner had imagined himself at Darren's age, desperately trying to win Larten's approval, and had wanted to show the boy that not everyone was so cold.

After a few days, however, it had become clear that Darren harboured no such ill feeling towards his mentor. They bickered occasionally, but Larten never raised his voice, and seemed capable of showing limited affection. Gavner had watched them share a chuckle several times over an inside joke developed over the years they had shared so far, and he had noticed Larten smiling sometimes, _really_ smiling, and he had once even ruffled his young assistant's hair when he had done something particularly pleasing. Darren had complained and swatted his hand away just like a teenager whose father was embarrassing him in front of his friends, and Gavner had turned his head.

"I'm tired," Gavner replies, fighting the urge to sneer. Something in what he'd observed of Darren and Larten's relationship, so different to what he'd expected, has created a bitter feeling in his gut, as loathe as he is to admit it.

He sighs and continues staring out into the snow and thinking about Paris, about Alicia and Tanish and Sylva. After a moment, he's suddenly thinking about Liz again. She had been young when they met, barely twenty, and she was approaching forty now. He wishes he'd gone against his better judgement twenty years ago, settled down with her and had children that he knew he would have adored. Memories of the way Alicia had cried and cried, every night when she thought he couldn't hear, for months after the mysterious orange-haired vampire had disappeared had stopped him. Because of his indecision, Liz had never married or had the children he knew she had wanted.

Larten takes a seat next to him while he's still absorbed in his thoughts. "What is so interesting?" he asks.

"Nothing," he growls. "I'm tired."

He shifts away from the cave's entrance, intending to try and shut his mind off for the approaching day, but Larten looks up at him with something resembling regret.

"What is bothering you?"

"Nothing," the young General hisses reflexively. Then, when Larten's eyes remained fixed on him, he sighs again. "Nothing that you would understand, anyway."

Larten's lips curl into a tight, barely-there kind of smile. "I am not so sure," he says, speaking softly.

Gavner sighs. It's difficult enough for him to put his own thoughts into a coherent order, let alone express them in a way that Larten, who seemingly has no understanding of anything as trivial as _emotions_ these nights, could possibly understand. He knows that his feelings boil down to jealousy, however foolish it might be, but he isn't at the point where he wants to bring these feelings up to the man he has always considered a father but who has never acted as one. _You ruined his life, too_ , Gavner wants to accuse, _why was it any different when you did it to me?_

But this isn't the time or the place for all of that, if there's ever going to be one. Eventually, he shakes his head, vowing that one day they'll have that conversation – about Alicia, about Sylva, about his parents and Tanish and everything, because it's something he's needed to have all along and he's carried it heavily for a century now. But it doesn't have to be tonight.

Perhaps sensing that their discussion is over for now, Larten draws himself to his feet – with many groans along the way, muscles stiffened like an old man from the cold. As he grumbles about his back, or his knee, or whatever it is, Gavner chuckles – and the older vampire gives him a good-natured swipe around the head as a warning to keep his mouth shut, and then clasps his shoulder and disappears into the shadows of the cave. Gavner smiles. This will do, for now.


	9. Farewell

haha this one is disgracefully long and also definitely not my best, but at least we're at number 9.

* * *

 **Farewell – Rihanna**  
 _And I know you're going somewhere to make a better life  
I hope that you find it on the first try  
And even though it kills me  
That you have to go  
I know it'll be sadder  
If you never hit the road_

When Arrow skips out on Council, Mika knows something is wrong before anyone else does. He knows it because Arrow's always enjoyed being at the Mountain with the only family he's ever known a _hundred_ times more than he's ever enjoyed being out in the world, and because he would never miss their usual ritual of getting blind drunk on the first night and scaring the newcomers.

Through their mental connection, Mika locates him in Scotland, of all places, and not moving. He spends a boring two months at the Mountain without his brother for company, and then decides he'll see for himself what's been keeping Arrow away. It takes him weeks to arrive, and when he does, summer is ending and it's already turning cold.

It's only when he's outside, drawing up to the little cottage and frowning, that he bothers letting Arrow know that he's here.

 _What the fuck is this house?_ he fires across their link, knowing that Arrow will pick up his location immediately. Knocking is for humans. _Have you gone soft?_

It's a matter of seconds later that the front door flings open and there he is, grinning from ear to ear, completely filling the doorway with his impressive height and broad shoulders. As always, Arrow draws him into a mockery of a hug – it's more like a brief wrestling match as Mika tries to twist away – and then, seemingly remembering where he is and _why_ Mika's here, his mouth turns down into a gentle frown.

"What's the matter?" he asks, straight to the heart of it as ever, and Arrow looks back at him and shrugs.

"Nothing," he replies, but he's always been a horrendous liar. They have been together in life longer now than they have been alone, and there is _nothing_ , Mika fancies, that he doesn't know about his brother. He knows that when he's worried he bites his thumbnail, knows he loves animals because of that one time he wouldn't kill a fox even though they were extremely fucking hungry because _it_ _might have a family,_ and he _knows_ that when he's keeping a secret his eyes always go down and to the left. Every single time, even over the most insignificant little thing – and, predictably, they're doing it now.

Mika fixes him with a look, and Arrow only sighs in response. He retreats back into the house, beckoning Mika along behind him. There's no evidence of a raid here, Mika notices, no corpses, no stench of blood. Arrow hasn't been keeping away on business. Arrow insists on taking a seat opposite the fireplace before he will hear any more of Mika's questions, and by the time they are there Mika feels almost ready to burst.

"What is this?" he asks.

Arrow sniffs. "I live here."

Arrow never has been a man of too many words, and so this bare bones response doesn't entirely shock Mika, but it still leaves him unsatisfied.

"Well, since when?" he quizzes. "And _why_?"

Arrow huffs, like he'd been hoping for more of a friendly chat than an interrogation, and Mika waits for Arrow to retort, because he always _does_ , but this time he just sighs, rubbing a thick hand across his chin as if he's deep in thought.

That's never a good thing. Arrow doesn't really _think_ – he usually just _does_ things, works entirely on instinct, and if necessary, he thinks about it later, or ideally he gets someone else to think about it on his behalf. Paris always says that will be his undoing if he isn't careful.

Before he replies, Arrow averts his eyes and rubs his lip before biting his thumbnail idly. Mika narrows his eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it yet," he says carefully, that secret he's obviously keeping bubbling just beneath the surface. "I haven't made up my mind. If I'd known you were coming, I would have told you that before you wasted your time."

Mika glares at his brother, annoyed that he's insisting on being cryptic, but there's a twisting feeling in his stomach too, because this _isn't_ the Arrow he knows.

"It can't be that bad," Mika assures. What he means is that it can't possibly be bad enough that Arrow can't tell _him_ of all people what it is. He tries hard not to feel a little offended, but haven't they always shared everything? Why should this, _whatever_ it is, be any different?

Arrow glances back at him thoughtfully, and leans back on his hands. Mika makes the sudden realization that this same man, who lived his entire life in the wilderness, looks distressingly comfortable in this very domestic setting, and perhaps that's what makes the twisting feeling close around his stomach even harder, like someone's got a hold of him and isn't going to let go until he chokes.

"I got married," Arrow blurts out, all in a rush, and for a moment Mika doesn't quite believe it. It's only when he glances accidentally at Arrow's hand and notices the thick gold band around his finger, and then the twisting feeling releases at once, replaced by an icy chill, as his worst fears are all confirmed.

" _What?_ " Mika roars, only for Arrow to hold up both hands and motion for him to keep his voice down, gesturing at the ceiling.

"She's asleep," Arrow says, like Mika should have somehow known that _before_. "It's the middle of the night."

That feels horribly ironic, because they're vampires, _of course_ it's the middle of the night – but Mika forces himself to take a breath and think before anything else comes out of his mouth.

"I probably should have told you before," Arrow continues, having the grace to look a little embarrassed. "But it's –"

"Yes you _probably_ should have," Mika interrupts in a low hiss, thinking probably might have been entirely the wrong word to use. _Definitely, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt_ – that would have been more appropriate.

Arrow flushes, because he knows he's in the wrong – but he shrugs his shoulders.

"It happened pretty quickly," he explains. "I _was_ going to tell you, once I'd had chance to think about what I'm going to do next."

Mika launches into a round of quick-fire questions without listening to that part, among them the predictable _what possessed you to do something so stupid?_ Mika doesn't bother asking the normal questions – _what's her name, how did you meet, do you love her?_ – because he doesn't _need_ those. All he really needs to know is that Arrow's been made wayward because he's met a little human who is turning him away from everything they've built together.

"Have you thought about this _at all?_ " he asks, with cogs turning in his mind, wondering how difficult it can possibly be to change Arrow's mind. He's infamously stubborn, but he _can_ be led, Paris proved that. He just needs to be sure he's being led in the right direction. "Charna's guts, Arrow. How do you think she's going to feel when you tell her you're a _vampire?_ "

Having answered everything else with such patience, Arrow chuckles at this one, and actually begins to look a little smug.

"I've already told her."

Mika feels the blood drain out of his face. "You've _what?_ "

Arrow stares him down confidently, looking like he's got it all figured out. "I told her when we met," he says proudly, as if by doing that he's broken the most important barrier. "She's alright with it."

For once in his life, Mika is rendered speechless. There are hundreds more questions that he wants answers to after that, but Arrow interrupts his train of thought.

"I don't want you to tell anyone yet," he says, and Mika feels a foolish little flutter of hope – it's only now that he realizes how _desperately_ he doesn't want Arrow to leave, and perhaps if he doesn't want anyone to know that's because he isn't going to. "I'm still not sure if I can keep this up."

Mika frowns. "If you weren't sure," he says, in disbelief. "Then why in the name of Petra Vin Grahl did you _marry_ her?"

Arrow gives him a long, strange look after that, and this is one of the only times that he has ever been unable to read him. Mika stares back, and wonders whether he doesn't know his brother quite as well as he always thought.

"I didn't mean I'm not sure about _this_ ," he replies, and he presses his lips together, voice soft. "I meant I'm not sure how I can reconcile staying here and being part of the clan. I'm not sure if I can."

 _There_ it is, that's what Mika's been expecting deep down since he arrived. The fact that he'd subconsciously known it was coming doesn't make it any easier to hear.

"It'll be difficult," Mika hears himself say, and Arrow nods.

"Dangerous, too," he says, chewing his thumbnail again.

The General-in-training wants to know if it's possible that he can have it all – keep his place in the ranks and keep his new human life too, but keep the two completely separate. Mika knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that such an arrangement will be an impossibility. He'll never have the best of either of the lives he wants to live.

Mika decides not to tell him that. He imagines that Arrow's coming to that conclusion slowly on his own.

"So," he says, all forced nonchalance, ignoring the fact that he feels like he's being stabbed in the back. "If it comes down to it – and I'm not saying it will – what would you choose?"

Arrow says nothing for a long time, and then sighs deeply.

"You're not going to understand," he says quietly, and Mika automatically bristles, because they're supposed to share _everything_. "But I think maybe being a General isn't what I always wanted. I think maybe it's finding someone I love and settling down and –"

"You gave that all up when you gave up your humanity," Mika argues immediately, and Arrow stares back at him with a look in his deep brown eyes that says _I knew you wouldn't get it_. But Mika _does_ get it. He knows better than anyone that deep, deep down, Arrow's always wanted the family he never had. He just always thought that was _him_.

"You're a fool if you throw it all away," he says, a grasping, last-ditch attempt to undo this.

Arrow only smiles. "I love Sarah," he sighs, and it's the first time he's said her name. Mika can't help but respond to it – how ordinary, how human, how _boring_. "I'd be a fool to throw that away, wouldn't I?"

Mika knows automatically that this is going to be the impasse between them. He's known for a long time that he has never _loved_ quite like other people do, and knows that he won't be able to understand if Arrow tries to explain it. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that he could never be happy without the clan, without _purpose_. He supposes his biggest mistake was assuming that Arrow was the same way.

Mika gathers himself up and announces that he's leaving, and Arrow doesn't tell him that it's almost dawn and that he ought to stay the day. He only nods, clenches his jaw and sees him out.

"I'll be in touch when I've…" he waves one hand, as if he can't find the right words. " _Decided_. I just need some more time to think."

Mika smiles sadly in the doorway. Because he knows this is going to be the last time for a long time, maybe forever, he reaches out and clasps Arrow's shoulder.

"You've already made the decision," he says, swallowing down the lump in his throat – because he's Mika Ver Leth and he's never needed _anyone_ and he's going to be _fine_ , and no matter how much it stings now it's going to heal. "Good luck."


	10. Shadow Days

THIS IS THE END! This isn't at all how I wanted this one to turn out - it doesn't even feature the characters I had planned, but I seriously couldn't get my other idea off the ground and above about 100 words. I hope these have been an enjoyable read. As always, please leave me a review if you're reading to let me know whether you liked it and how I could improve my writing, because I'm always interested! Thanks to ponderinfrustration and SweetLittleOldLady for your reviews throughout :)

* * *

 **Shadow Days** **– John Mayer  
** _Hard times help me see  
I'm a good man with a good heart  
Had a tough time, got a rough start  
But I finally learned to let it go  
Now I'm right here, and I'm right now  
And I'm hoping, knowing somehow  
That my shadows days are over_

When Gavner decided to return to the Mountain, having half-expected that Larten would communicate with him and take back all that he'd said about wishing to withdraw from the clan within the first few nights of his ascent, he had months to prepare what he was going to say. Larten had given him simple instructions – pass a message to Paris indicating that he no longer wished to become a Prince, and that he would not be returning to the fold in future. Those simple instructions, however, were complicated by how others would react. Aside from Seba, Larten had not given him any instruction on what to say to any of his other friends and colleagues, all of whom would wonder about the mental state of the man who had displayed so much promise.

Gavner wouldn't have minded telling them the answers, if only he had any. He was as puzzled as the rest of them, and had found himself focusing more on Larten's motivations than on anything else on his climb. He was aware that Larten worried over whether he was good and noble enough to make an acceptable leader. He had said repeatedly that it was a great honour to be asked to become a Prince, but his lips had never strayed into a smile.

Gavner felt he understood his reservations. Larten had led a complicated, unhappy life, and much of his past was tainted with the mistakes he had made. After all of these years, it still felt as though Larten looked at his hands sometimes and saw blood on them, as though no matter how he tried to repent or how many of the people he had harmed found it within themselves to forgive him, he would never be free of the shackles of his guilt.

But that didn't go all the way to explaining his sudden change of heart. Perhaps he was tired of the killing, but it seemed that being nominated for the highest position was one of the only ways he might have been able to stop some of it from within, without having to isolate himself from those who loved him. Gavner supposed that love, for Larten, was a foreign and long-forgotten concept, and imagined that he didn't truly believe that anyone would miss him.

Gavner intended to arrive at the Mountain and request a meeting with the Princes at their earliest convenience – it didn't seem like Larten would have appreciated the news of his departure making its way to Paris' ears through general Mountain gossip ( _but then again_ , Gavner wondered, _would he even care anymore?_ ) – but as soon as he took a seat, gulping down a few mouthfuls of blood, Seba was shifting into the bench across from him. Seba was stern, but usually in reasonably good humour – though he was so highly respected, he took himself less seriously than many vampires centuries his junior took themselves. There was no sign of that good humour now. His lips were twisted into a pronounced frown, and the look in his eyes said everything all at once.

There was no need for preamble, and Gavner was rendered speechless anyway as soon as he registered the dull agony in Seba's blue eyes. He had known that Larten's departure would injure the elderly vampire – how could it not? – but he hadn't realized until that moment exactly how much.

He remembered vividly the message Larten had asked him to pass on to his former master, but he had hoped he might have chance to think about how he was going to put it into the appropriate words, and that he would have the chance to tell the Princes of his decision beforehand. Vaguely, he wondered how Seba already knew, but it didn't seem to be the right moment to ask.

"Can you tell me what has happened?" Seba asked, a desperate request, and Gavner sighed deeply. This would be the first of many of these conversations, he knew. He had Paris to face yet, and Vancha, Kurda would want to know, _oh Gods_ , and _Arra_ –

"I don't know," Gavner admitted, feeling foolish. Seba never would have allowed Larten to make such a rash decision so quickly, and Gavner had barely even done _anything_ to stop him. "He just told me to pass the message on – just that he's leaving and Wester is too, and he isn't coming back, and that he doesn't want to be a Prince or even a _General_ after all. He asked me to tell you he's sorry if he disappointed you, and that –" here he swallowed, unsure of how to phrase the next part. "And that he'll always love and respect you, but that you might not see him or Wester for a long time."

When he had finished, not knowing how to put it more eloquently, Seba was staring back at him with his lips pressed firmly together, as though he was thinking exceptionally hard about something. Gavner supposed he might be trying to work out Larten's train of thought – and, having spent months doing the same, Gavner wished him the best of luck with _that_ endeavour – and so he kept quiet and allowed the new Quartermaster to think, staring down miserably into the bowl of broth he'd been presented with on arrival.

"I knew you were going to ask me why," Gavner continued. "But I _can't_ tell you. I don't know."

A shuddering breath interrupted him. When he looked at Seba again, there was a profound change in him – though he hadn't moved even an inch, his eyes were glistening in the low light with something that might have been tears.

Gavner grasped for something to say that might soften the blow. "They might still come to their senses," he offered, because he was still hoping that himself, but when he said it Seba smiled sadly. It was the same lonely, awful shadow of a smile that Larten had given him before he had disappeared. "Larten said they might come, one day in the future – well, that one of them might."

This time, one tear escaped and rolled along the old Quartermaster's cheek. Gavner was taken aback by the sight, but he didn't feel it was his place to comment or ask why the resignations of his assistants had moved him so deeply. After long moments of silence, Seba sniffed and gathered himself to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Gavner asked reflexively, because it didn't seem right that he didn't have any other questions. He had expected not being able to answer any of them, but he tried to put himself in Seba's shoes and thought he would have wanted to know so much _more_. Gavner himself was desperate to know what had happened that had made both Larten and Wester decide to abandon the clan, but there was a look in Seba's eyes that suggested he felt he already knew.

For the slightest of moments, it looked as though Seba wanted to sit back down and discuss it all at greater length, but then he shook his head, as though banishing the thought.

"To reflect," he croaked simply, with another of those blank smiles, and then, perhaps noticing Gavner's uncertainty, he reached out to grasp his wrist with a shaking hand.

"Do not worry about Larten," he said, though his voice cracked on the second syllable of the name of his former assistant. Gavner wondered distantly whether he ought to worry for Wester. "Pass on his message, and then leave it behind you."

More than anyone, Seba would have known what Larten would have wanted – and he was right. Larten would not have wanted him to fixate on finding out the reasons behind his decision, and it was likely that he himself wasn't sure of what they were. Larten had been noble, and had made his choice before he ruined anyone around him, and, regardless of whether he was right or wrong to do it, Gavner would be sure to remember that instead.


End file.
